


Till All the Hundred Summers Pass

by Arrested



Series: The Day-Dream [12]
Category: Ivanhoe, Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anachronistic Social Attitudes, Angst, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Middle Ages, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 04:09:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20303227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrested/pseuds/Arrested
Summary: A long awaited reunion.





	Till All the Hundred Summers Pass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).

> Dear **Queen_Richard**: I had intended to leave the identity of Richard’s retainer and spy a mystery, but when I thought about what you might enjoy, this was the obvious choice. While it is not exactly canon, you can consider it adjacent to the rest of the story. This Blondel is a little older than yours and has a different background. I based his details off of Jean II de Nesle, who was about 15-20 years younger than Richard as far as I can figure. Since Richard is just coming up on 50 here, Blondel would be in his early thirties. The place Richard refers to that is neither France nor England is, of course, the island of Guernsey, where Nesle was granted lands by Richard before his death.
> 
> Blondel’s song was composed by Nesle himself and can be heard [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jb8i4GxSIXw).
> 
> This story is my original work. All rights are reserved.

They crossed the Seine after dark. The creaking of the ferry and nervous snorting of the horses echoed in the quiet night as they passed into the shadow of Chateau Gaillard. The white stone walls of the great fortress reflected the light of the waxing moon, scattered with narrow windows and the glow of torches.

Richard surveyed his castle with pride, and the critical eye of a commander evaluating the condition of his fortifications. It was a habit born of decades spent at war, the search for the smallest crack, the single weak link in the defenses that could afford his enemies an advantage and spell doom for his armies.

That instinctive caution served him equally well in the game of shifting allegiances at court, where the smallest slip, the most momentary indiscretion, would be pounced upon by those who smiled to his face even as they sought in secret to foment his fall. In order to win his throne and to keep it, Richard had been obliged to cultivate his discernment as well as his martial prowess, to be a quick judge of character, and to value a man’s loyalty and skill over his station or facile promises.

In this, he had been largely successful, but it had not been without sacrifice. It was just such a battle against veiled treachery that he had returned to France to fight, after five long years devoted to England, and with one of his most trusted allies at his side.

“I never thought to see this place again,” Wilfred said, as they mounted their horses on the river bank and began the trek up the high promontory to the castle.

“Is it so distasteful to you?” Richard asked.

“I do not mind the food,” Wilfred shrugged, “but the air of France never did suit me as well as England.”

“You have much of your father in you, clearly.”

Wilfred laughed. “Had you said as much when we first traveled these lands, you might have found yourself less one knight, but I have learned that is not such a terrible thing as I once believed.”

“What luck that your narrowly avoided death was sufficient to evoke his more sentimental impulses.”

“It was not I who softened him,” Wilfred said with a smile, “but I am one of many who reaped the benefit.”

“Let us hope I can make as handy a reconciliation with my own family.”

“Your brother is nearly as stubborn as my father was, and twice as devious. You will recall that I did advise you against leaving him to his own devices in France.”

“Perhaps history will judge me a fool for the mercy,” Richard said, “but taking the life of the man who wore the crown, pretender or no, seemed to me to set a dangerous precedent for my own rule.”

“Fair enough,” Wilfred conceded easily.

It was not an uncommon argument between them, and though neither of them was likely to shift his position on the matter, there was still no other man Richard would prefer at his side if they were to face an outright confrontation.

“Ah,” Wilfred said, as they rounded the final turn of the road and the gate came into view. He glanced at Richard, a sly smile stealing over his face. “I see a warm welcome awaits.”

Richard had no ready reply. He had known who awaited him at Gaillard, had in fact sent word of their arrival to ensure it. It did not change how his breath was stolen by the sight of the lone figure who stood perfectly framed between the torches that hung above the gate, lit in a halo of gold with hands clasped neatly behind his back.

Wilfred swung down from his horse and gathered his reins in his left hand to offer the right. “Lord Nesle.”

“Lord Ivanhoe.” He clasped Wilfred’s forearm with a warm smile.

Richard handed off his own reins to one of their attendants without looking, for he had eyes for only one man.

“Blondel.”

Blondel’s eyes settled upon him at last, glowing golden in the torchlight and brimming with a wealth of emotion, closely restrained by his formal pose. He offered a bow, voice throbbing warm as he said, “My king.”

Richard’s throat was tight, but he smiled and opened his arms. “Will you not greet me as a friend?”

Blondel’s smile inched wider, a flash of white teeth. “As you wish, my king.”

He stepped into Richard’s arms, let Richard gather him in close and clasped him tightly in return. He was warm and real, vital with breath and life, and from the strength of his embrace he had missed Richard just as fiercely as the king had missed him. Richard could not resist turning his nose into Blondel’s mane of tawny hair to catch his warm spiced scent in his nose.

Blondel’s laugh throbbed in his chest. “A marked improvement over dry and dusty letters.”

Richard echoed the laugh and released him. “How fares my mother?”

“Well, my king,” Blondel replied, “and eager to speak with you in the morning.”

“And my brother?”

“Away at the court of King Philip at present.”

That drew a frown to Richard’s face. “Was he not informed of my arrival?”

“He was,” Blondel said simply.

It was not difficult to read his meaning. “I see.”

“It seems he may require a more forceful summons,” Wilfred noted.

“What can you tell me of his plans?” Richard asked Blondel.

Blondel stepped back, his smile never faltering. “Please, my king, come inside. Let us discuss these important matters in more comfortable surroundings.”

Richard took it for the warning it was, and gestured for Blondel to lead the way, leaving his attendants to the castle servants. The castle corridors were largely deserted so late into the night, but they did not speak until they were ensconced safely within the private chamber to which Blondel guided them.

“He has agents here, I take it,” Richard said, as he seated himself at the table.

“Few in number, but no less dangerous for it,” Blondel said. He went to the sideboard and poured wine into two jeweled goblets. “Most of your servants here remain loyal to your mother, and thus to you. At court it is another matter entirely. Prince John has formed allegiances with the Dukes of Brabant and Cologne, and seeks through their influence to garner the support of King Philip himself.”

“What value could he possibly offer them? He has no wealth now but that which our mother sees fit to accord him, and no lands to speak of.”

“The lands he offers do not at present belong to him,” Blondel said.

Richard scowled. “So he would barter my family’s possessions in France for the sake of England’s throne.”

“What exactly was it that brought the church into all of this?” Wilfred asked. “I thought Pope Celestine was on good terms with the king after Rouen.”

“As I understand it, he soured again after the disagreement over the appointment of the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Enough to fund an attempt to overthrow me?”

“His holiness sent Theobald upon the request of Stephen Langton, to assist him in establishing his power. Rome had no part in the plot to murder Prince Henry. That was a conspiracy between Prince John and the archbishop. His holiness’s position remains one of spectator at the moment. He will not step in and dirty his hands until he is assured of a victory.”

“You are terrifically well informed,” Wilfred said to Blondel.

Blondel’s lips tilted in a smirk, and he dipped a florid bow. “A simple baron moves about the court unchallenged, and one who is an entertainer even more so.”

“You are lucky you have yet to be caught out,” Richard noted, “and should take care now that my brother’s latest gambit has been thwarted. He will be seeking the spy who betrayed his plans.”

“On that count, he places the blame squarely upon a few notable of men of your royal council. You might carry that warning back with you to England and bid them keep a wary eye out for French assassins.”

“You could be a power unto yourself, if you had a mind.” Wilfred shook his head.

“Instead you lurk about here,” Richard said wryly, “keeping my mother company and collecting rumors on my behalf.”

Blondel’s eyes met his, and he said, “I live but to serve you, my king.”

The silence stretched, while they stared at one another, until Wilfred broke it with the sharp tap of his goblet upon the table.

“Well, I think I will leave you to it. I’m sure you have many other matters to discuss.”

“Thank you, Wilfred,” Richard said. “Tomorrow we will determine the proper steps to bring my brother to heel.”

Blondel stood when Wilfred did. “There is a meal prepared for you in your chambers, Lord Ivanhoe,” he said, “and a bath, should you desire it. Any of the servants can show you the way.”

“I will take both, and thank you for them,” Wilfred said. He looked between them once, just as he closed the door, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “Good night.”

Then he was gone, and the sudden lack of his presence seemed to hang a weight upon the atmosphere of the room. Blondel’s eyes met Richard’s again, feline gold and startling, radiant in the firelight. They remained that way, absorbing one another with only their gazes, until Richard spoke.

“You have truly become a man in my absence.”

It was impossible to look upon Blondel now, grown shrewd and skilled at intrigue, and not cast his memory back to every other form of Blondel he had known. It was perhaps the inevitable outcome of the fractured nature of their acquaintance, the brief weeks and months of companionship broken by long years of separation, over and over again.

Richard remembered him as a spit of a boy, clever eyes and clever fingers that plucked the sweetest sounds from his chosen instrument and first drew Richard’s attention. He remembered Blondel as a slim and supple youth, bright eyed and adoring as he allowed Richard to take him by the hand and lead him down the sweet and secret paths to temptation, to the pleasure of soft honeyed kisses that gave way to heated caresses and finally to the fullness of passion on the eve of Richard’s departure for the Holy Land. Then, years later, he reappeared as the daring young man, nearly as skilled with a bow as a lute, who sought and found the lost sovereign when no other man had been able, and ensured his deliverance from captivity.

Now he stood before the king, a man proper, and his smile soft with amusement. “Is my form no longer pleasing to you, my king?”

Richard favored him with a laugh, and let himself fall into the rhythms that their conversations had always taken. Though the world persisted in driving them apart, when they were together it seemed as though no time at all had passed. The man before him was not quite as he remembered, but he was still beautiful, always precious to Richard’s eyes. “Your form is ever pleasing, and the man within it doubly so.”

“That is all I could ever desire.” The look on Blondel’s face was expectant, open, though he made no move to approach Richard.

The king rolled his goblet between his palms, considering. “Have you yet to take a wife, Blondel?”

“I have not taken one,” Blondel replied calmly, “nor will I, while my heart still lives.”

Richard’s throat went uncomfortably tight, the simple devotion too pure, too honest, when he was so accustomed now to regarding each oath of fealty with suspicion, to guarding his back at every turn.

“Does it not trouble you that your heart is wed to another?” It was a question he had never dared broach in their occasional letters, the risk of unfriendly eyes too great, the risk of what Blondel might answer even greater.

“I knew from the first that you would never be mine alone.” Blondel’s voice was low, his eyes gentle. “England was your bride, long before Queen Agnes ever was.”

“And you are content with this?”

Blondel moved then, stepping close to fold himself slowly to his knees at Richard’s feet and look up at him. “Is the holy priestess who has pledged her soul to her deity not content and fulfilled, even knowing that she may never lay sole claim to his love?”

The temptation to touch, to surrender to the allure of those luminous eyes, was nearly irresistible, but Richard held himself back, spoke around the knot in his throat. “Have I condemned you, then, to celibacy? You have far too much to give to waste your years waiting for what small moments I can offer you.”

“They are worth the wait,” Blondel replied. “Unlike the holy sister, I know that my sun will at times descend. The moments you give are richer than a lifetime with any other could be, my king.”

“Will you not call me Richard? As you did when you were young?”

Blondel’s shoulders rolled in easy acquiescence. “You are my king, and I will call you what you wish to be called.”

“You know the truth,” Richard said. “You know that I never wanted or expected the throne. It came to me by the misfortune of my brothers. It is mine now to defend, and all of England’s people with it, but I once had my own ambitions.”

“The warrior poet,” Blondel agreed with a fond smile, “as like to burst into song as to challenge a man to duel.”

“Do you still remember the songs we wrote together?” Richard asked him.

“How could I forget,” Blondel laughed, “when it was the very thing that led me to you when we feared all was lost?”

“And have you kept up your art?”

“I have.” Blondel said. “Would you hear a song now?”

“I would.”

Blondel had no lute, but he reached out slowly to take Richard’s hands between his own, and his golden eyes never left Richard’s as he began to sing.

_L'amour dont sui espris_  
_ Me semont de chanter,_  
_ Si chant com hom soupris_  
_ Ki ne puet amender._  
_ Petit i ai conquis,_  
_ Mais bien me puis vanter:_  
_ Se li plaist, j'ai apris_  
_ A loiaument amer._  
_ A ce sunt mi penser_  
_ Et seront a touz dis;_  
_ Ja nes en quier oster._

Richard leaned down as the last note began to fade, and drank the melody from Blondel’s lips. Blondel welcomed him as he always had, his surrender sweet and tender as he opened his mouth and met Richard’s tongue with his own, but his face was shadowed when Richard released him.

“What is it?” Richard asked him. “Is this no longer a thing you desire?”

“Your queen is discontent, my king,” Blondel said quietly. “She writes to tell her cousin as much.”

Richard sat back in his chair, and pulled his hands from Blondel’s to take up his cup again. “It is not for lack of my attention that she finds no comfort in England.”

“Do you woo her with sweet words and tokens of your affection?”

“That, and more,” Richard said. “Have I not kept myself apart from you all these years, for the sake of England and an heir?”

He ached yet to remember Blondel standing upon the shores of Normandy the day Richard and Wilfred made their covert return to England. Unwavering, constant, even as he grew small in the distance, until the coastline faded from view. The hollow that had cracked open in Richard’s breast that day pained him even now, even as the man whose absence he mourned sat within reach.

“And now you have both,” Blondel said.

“Now I have both,” Richard agreed, “and yet my bed and my heart linger empty.”

“Are there truly none in England who would tend to the needs of their beloved king?”

“Theirs is not the comfort I seek.”

“What comfort, then, does Richard desire?”

The sound of his name in Blondel’s musical voice was the sweetest song Richard had heard in years. For once, for a moment, he pushed thoughts of duty aside and spoke the desire of his heart.

“Will you come here to me, Blondel? Let me know you as we once knew each other?”

Blondel’s smile was heartbreaking. “You have only to ask, and anything you desire of me will be yours.” He flowed smoothly to his feet and offered his hand. “Shall I show you to your chamber?”

“This is my castle,” Richard chuckled as he took the offered hand. “Do you think I have forgotten the way?”

Blondel drew Richard’s hand to his mouth and placed a gentle kiss to his knuckles. “The corridors are dark and you are weary. Allow me to guide you.”

So they walked hand in hand, that single touch a bright beacon of warmth as Blondel led him through the castle to the royal chambers. The spacious room was richly appointed, and a collection of kingly comforts waited there. The table was laid with a lavish meal, and more of the rich wine Richard had already enjoyed. The wooden tub peeked out from beyond the bathing screen, steaming with gentle heat. The vast bed was adorned with an embarrassment of silks and pillows. Richard’s eyes moved from one of these temptations to the other, until they settled at last on the greatest of them, standing just before him and waiting for the king to choose his pleasure.

Richard reached for him, and the years melted away as Blondel stepped into his arms, so that it seemed to Richard that he could smell again the ripe summer roses of the bower within whose shaded embrace he had first tasted those innocent lips. Blondel had been unskilled but so eager then. Now he was more sure, but no less hungry. Richard sought to rectify now his neglect, and found that he could still read the sounds and signs of Blondel’s body as readily as he ever had. He responded the same to the teasing press of lips, the same firm embrace.

When Richard pulled away to look at him, Blondel’s feline eyes were soft and knowing. He had ever been most skilled at reading Richard’s mind, and ever entrusted with his closest secrets. In decades of friendship, he had never once betrayed Richard’s trust, stood steadfast through trials Richard would never have asked him to weather. He threaded his fingers into the burnished fall of Blondel’s hair and kissed a path down the vulnerable curve of his throat. Richard was consumed by him, delighting in him willing and wanting, and wondered that he had ever thought he might find contentment in the cold duty of a marriage bed, when he knew already the force of this passion, the depth of fierce desire that set his very soul aflame.

He took a step, and Blondel followed, allowed Richard to guide his feet as they drifted slowly toward the sumptuous bed. Richard pressed Blondel back against the edge of it and did not release him from his arms even as he plucked open the laces on Blondel’s tunic and teased it down to bare his shoulders and chest. He laid siege to that new expanse of skin, teasing it with his beard before he laid his teeth to it in a shower of gentle nips.

Blondel’s hands made quick work of his doublet in turn, pushing it back over his shoulders. Richard caught his hands and spun him around, trapping him against the bed with his hips against Blondel’s rump as he quickly divested himself of both doublet and shirt. Blondel moaned and arched against him, grinding himself back against Richard’s straining manhood.

“Not just yet.” Richard caught him around the middle and used his other hand to sweep aside the long fall of hair from his shoulders, baring his neck and the white slope of his back for more teasing nips and kisses.

“Will you torment me yet longer?” Blondel demanded with another wriggle. “Have you not denied me long enough, Richard?”

“I have,” Richard agreed. “So allow me to make amends, after my own fashion.”

He turned Blondel about to face him again and tipped him back onto the bed, caught his legs to strip him of the rest of his clothing. Then he stood back and looked at the whole of him, taking note of the ways that he had changed since Richard last witnessed him thus. Though undeniably mature, Blondel was still long-limbed and graceful, his body one that had never known the burden of plate and chain carried heavy on the march for weeks on end.

Blondel leaned up on his elbows, watching the king in turn, open admiration in his gaze that gave Richard a confidence he had not realized had dimmed across years with only perfunctory encounters to ease the loneliness. Then Blondel very deliberately drew his knees up and braced his heels on the bed, baring the rest of him to Richard’s gaze, and all thoughts but one vanished from Richard’s mind. Blondel’s luminous eyes were wide, his smile inviting, though his whole body was beset by the faintest of tremors.

Richard’s heart lurched at the sight. He ran his hand up Blondel’s side, felt his heart beating fast beneath his ribs, and lowered himself down into the space that Blondel had made for him, covering Blondel’s body with his own as he kissed him softly. “Are you frightened?”

“No, Richard,” Blondel assured him, his thighs pressing close against the king’s hips as he arched against him, slow and wanton. “Only empty, and desperate to know you again.”

Though he denied it, Richard could feel his nerves, in the discordant note in his voice and the tentative brush of his hands, and Richard would confess to feeling the same. They were far from strangers, their love deep and enduring as the sea that separated them, but to be bared before one another again after so long brought echoes of the uncertainty of new lovers.

“Then you shall have what you desire,” Richard said, deciding that there would be time for slow explorations later. What mattered now was the need to call back to life from memory the perfect way they fit together.

Richard moved off of Blondel, and Blondel read his intention at once, one hand pointing to the cabinet that stood at the bedside. “There. On the top shelf.”

Richard opened the door and found a small glass bottle just where Blondel said it would be. He poured a healthy measure of cool oil into his palm, let it warm against his skin before he coated his fingers and began a tentative exploration of the shadowed crux of Blondel’s legs. His body was resistant, so much so that Richard might have believed him untried had he not possessed the vivid memory of plucking that flower himself, but the tilt of Blondel’s hips was eager, so Richard forced his way through and caught Blondel’s lips to gentle him through the sting of it. It took a moment, but he quickly found the rhyme, his hand questing sure for the places that would drive Blondel to that desperate edge, and it was not long before he was rewarded.

“Now, Richard,” Blondel begged. “Please, I cannot bear another moment without you.”

In that they were in perfect accord, Richard’s arousal heavy as he smoothed the oil over himself and sheathed himself within Blondel in one smooth push, and nothing, not setting foot upon English shores after his long captivity, not the moment the crown was placed upon his head, nothing had ever felt like such a homecoming as this. No beauty of England had moved him as the sight of tawny silk spread across the coverlet and golden eyes filled with adoration that stared up at him now.

He rolled his hips, claiming Blondel as deeply as he was able, and was rewarded with the clasp of Blondel’s limbs around him, with sweet cries and pleas that cracked that musical voice as Richard gave him what they both desired. The weariness of the road was a boon then, for it kept Richard from succumbing too quickly, kept the inevitable swell of pleasure to a slower pace, let him last so that he had the joy of feeling Blondel draw tight around him, his body pulsing with ecstasy before Richard allowed his own to overtake him.

After, they lay spent against one another, and Richard would likely have fallen asleep that way except that Blondel moved to free himself. Richard rolled away with ill grace, watching in disgruntled confusion as Blondel rose. Blondel took a gratifying moment to steady himself before he tottered toward the screened off bath and returned a moment later with a warm, wet cloth in hand. He folded his legs beneath him on the bed as he tenderly cleaned the king, sweeping away the mess from his chest and stomach before he turned his attention to Richard’s cock. Richard groaned at the rough rasp of the linen, even as his body lit in interest beneath the touch.

Blondel smiled and made to retreat, but Richard caught him by the wrist before he could. He pried the cloth from Blondel’s hand and tossed it to the floor, pulling Blondel down beside him. Blondel acquiesced easily to the unspoken demand. He settled on his side, propped upon his elbow to look down at the king with such a love shining in his face that it stole Richard’s breath.

Perhaps it had also stolen his sense, for he asked, “Will you not come to England?”

Blondel’s smile fell, his eyes sad and very soft, and he shook his head. “No, my king. I will remain yours, and remain here. I cannot allow you to risk your reputation, risk scandal and the loss of your throne. Who would be your eyes and ears in France if I left? It does not do to be incautious, not with such enemies as would move against you now. Not even for the pleasure of your company.”

“Then let me give you a place,” Richard said. “Somewhere between, neither England nor France, where we may exist as we will. It need not be always, nor even often, but I cannot be parted from you for so long again.”

Blondel leaned down and laid his lips over Richard’s, a lingering kiss. “That I will accept.”

“It will be done the instant I return to England,” Richard swore.

Blondel’s expression was serene, though he could not keep the dread from his voice as he asked, “And when will that be?”

Richard reached for him, cradled his cheek and drew him down so that his head rested upon Richard’s shoulder and the king could press kisses into his hair.

“Not yet, my heart,” he said. “Not yet.”

**Author's Note:**

> Soft lustre bathes the range of urns  
On every slanting terrace-lawn.  
The fountain to his place returns  
Deep in the garden lake withdrawn.  
Here droops the banner on the tower,  
On the hall-hearths the festal fires,  
The peacock in his laurel bower,  
The parrot in his gilded wires.
> 
> Till all the hundred summers pass,  
The beams, that thro’ the Oriel shine,  
Make prisms in every carven glass,  
And beaker brimm’d with noble wine.  
Each baron at the banquet sleeps,  
Grave faces gather’d in a ring.  
His state the king reposing keeps.  
He must have been a jovial king.
> 
> The Day-Dream  
by Lord Alfred Tennyson


End file.
